


Aftermath

by immaplatypus



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Bonding, Gen, I'm new to this site whoopsie daisy so I apologize if my tags are wonky, Mild Language, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23325799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immaplatypus/pseuds/immaplatypus
Summary: It’s a frigid night in September when he first forgets how to tie a barrel knot.Weathered fingers glide over fishing line, knots weaving into webs around his knuckles, spidery thread crawling across aged skin.  He stares, unblinking, at the gnarled masterpiece between his fingers.  The air stings like firecrackers. His body aches with cold.He is discovered three minutes later by a doppelganger, a mirror of a man who seems to have misplaced his favorite pen, half-scribbled sketch of a kraken in his left hand.  The newcomer asks him for help before worried eyes lock on the fishing line, on the trembling, thread-woven gloves, on the glassy, vacant stare before him.  Wind whips the sketch from the six-fingered hand; he pays it no heed.They recite “My name is Stanley Pines,” back and forth in the ship’s cabin, until morning dances in through the curtains.  Until the familiar sunbeams of identity light his skin again.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Probably one of the only older pieces I'm carrying over to AO3, this was originally posted to Tumblr in 2016, but I'm still quite fond of it. Still pretty new to the site, so sorry if my formatting is off.  
> 
> 
> [Inspired by this observation by fan-art-ic on Tumblr.](https://fan-art-ic.tumblr.com/post/139458187891/okay-but-seriously-stanford-was-electrocuted-a)

It’s a frigid night in September when he first forgets how to tie a barrel knot. 

Weathered fingers glide over fishing line, knots weaving into webs around his knuckles, spidery thread crawling across aged skin. He stares, unblinking, at the gnarled masterpiece between his fingers. The air stings like firecrackers. His body aches with cold.

He is discovered three minutes later by a doppelganger, a mirror of a man who seems to have misplaced his favorite pen, half-scribbled sketch of a kraken in his left hand. The newcomer asks him for help before worried eyes lock on the fishing line, on the trembling, thread-woven gloves, on the glassy, vacant stare before him. Wind whips the sketch from the six-fingered hand; he pays it no heed.

They recite _“My name is Stanley Pines,”_ back and forth in the ship’s cabin, until morning dances in through the curtains. Until the familiar sunbeams of identity light his skin again.

* * *

Ford doesn’t mention the incident until two days later, over dinner. Stan, in his surprise, chokes on a few pebbles of ice in his water, and slams down the glass with more force than intended.

“For Pete’s sake—Stanley, those glasses were expensive!”

“Yeah, well, what d’ya expect me t’do?” Stan coughs, rubbing his throat. “Calmly set it down with my pinky in th’ air?” He shakes his head, propping up a fork and twirling it against the worn tabletop. “You’re the one beginnin’ a conversation with, _‘Well, it seems we may be encounterin’ a major catastrophe.’_ I mean, c’mon—Who starts sentences like that?”

“Stanley, this—this _is_ a catastrophe!” Ford retorts. He quiets, lowering his head. “T-to me at least.”

Neither says anything for a moment—the prongs of Stan’s fork grate against the wood as he continues to twirl it, staring past his own plate, the alcohol-stained map in the center of the table, all the way across the counter into the worried eyes of his brother. The air smells of seawater, and Stan sighs. This was the dream they’d scrambled after for years, and just when it seemed like everything was perfect, something else was already sending it crumbling.

“I…I think you…you might be suffering some after-effects,” Ford says softly, “from…from the memory gun.”

Stan swallows. Says nothing. His throat still itches with the chill of ice cubes.

“I tried to do some reading on it,” Ford continues, “b-but after a month passed with no incident, I—I moved forward! Cautious optimism, you know? But it was foolish of me. And for a while, I thought you would—I thought that…that I hadn’t…”

His head slowly rises again, and Stan notices for the second time how old his brother has become; how stress has wrung the color from his hair, snuffed the light in his eyes, colors streaming down every wrinkle and line on his face, just...fading.

Stan doesn’t want to talk about this.

“…C’mon Ford,” he says gently, gesturing with the fork towards his brother’s plate. “Let’s just worry about dinner for now, okay? Heh, gotta eat your fish sometime—Look at it, you’re makin’ it sad!”

Ford chuckles slightly—a weak spark of warmth in a blizzard of anxiety—and shakes his head. “It’s alright, I’m…I’m not very hungry.”

“Well, I am. Hand it over, Sixer. Otherwise that poor innocent trout died for nothin’.”

Another chuckle, this one genuine; a brighter glow. “Stan Pines, you have a full plate right under your nose!”

“Are you seriously fightin’ against a cause as noble as this?” Stan rises, patting his stomach playfully. “See this? This is the greater good, Stanford! Greater good, I tell ya!”

Ford finally lets out an unbridled laugh, and Stan can’t help but smile as the light surges back into his brother’s face. The smile morphs into a mischievous grin as he circles the table, patting his brother warmly on the shoulder. 

“Ford, my memory’s not goin’ nowhere.”

Heaving a resolute sigh, Ford finally looks up at Stan. “And what makes you so certain?”

Stan smiles—he’s beyond certain. Memories surge through his mind on ships of their own, images billowing in the wind on their own patterned flags. He can feel the grit of sand between his toes and the bubbling of youth in his chest, and he recounts every scene for his brother. _Memory schmemory._ These are the things he can’t ever imagine himself forgetting: Childhood contraptions set to catch some Tooth Fairy, Sandman, or otherwise. The sting of sunburns and the syrupy tang of snow cones. A great niece and nephew aglow with the same glittering wonder that they used to have so long ago…the same wonder that they were regaining now.

And Ford is full of that light now, his laughter shining, buzzing, electric—his frame trembling with happiness, and then…and then something else. He’s glowing, he’s shuddering, he’s _burning_ , and it takes too long for Stan to realize that something is wrong, _very wrong_. 

He catches his brother’s convulsing frame before it hits the floor, ship quaking along with every seizing muscle, and Stan doesn’t know what this is. He doesn’t know what to do. All he does is clutch his brother’s hand, light draining from his own face, trying his best to stutter out desperate reassurances.

And the word pounds now inside his head: _Catastrophe, catastrophe, catastrophe._

* * *

“Ford, I really think you should see a doctor or somethin’.”

“Stan, I have multiple PhDs. Technically I _am_ a doctor.”

The two twins sit on their respective cots, four days following the incident. Around them, the night-soaked ship lurches in tune with Stan’s churning stomach. Ford had drawn his own conclusions since that night: it had been a seizure, brought on by Bill’s electrocution session back during the apocalypse. Stan had nearly punched a hole in the wall out of frustration; all their efforts, and that bastard of a demon was still getting the last laugh.

It was a minor one, though, Ford had insisted repeatedly. Stan just scoffed. His brother had never been a very good liar.

“Yeah, Sixer, I got that,” Stan continues, settling back on the cot with a quiet creak. “But there ain’t any doctor I’ve ever seen that can treat himself while unconscious.”

“I’ve come close,” Ford says, and Stan hears the familiar _clang_ of knuckles knocking against Ford’s metal temple. Stan does nothing but wince.

“So what’s your plan, huh? Think that’s gonna help against seizures? Gonna build yourself an iron _brain_ this time?”

“Look, Stanley—” a flash of sheets, and Ford is back on his feet again, pacing. “I’m as concerned as you are, but let’s be honest with ourselves!”

Stan stays silent, watching the mud-spattered boots pace in the corner of his vision.

“No doctor is ever going to take this seriously. I mean, how am I supposed to present my case? _‘Ah, yes, I’ve recently experienced a seizure due to a one-eyed triangle torturing me for information.’”_

Stan sits up, eyes drilling through the dimly lit room, straight into his brother’s. He takes in a deep breath. Salty air fills his lungs.

“This ain’t a court case, Stanford. It’s your health.”

Ford’s pacing stops short, and his shoulders slump with a resigned sigh. His eyes drift from Stanley’s stare to the gritty floor beneath his feet, and finally back towards his brother.

“…This really means that much to you?”

Stan scoffs jokingly. “You kiddin’? Of course not. I hate your guts!” A playful foot kicks Stanford’s leg, and his brother snorts in retaliation. “I just can’t risk you randomly floppin’ about like a fish anymore. Trust me, we’ve got enough’f those around already.”

Ford smirks, fist lightly smacking into his brother’s shoulder. “Alright, you knucklehead, I get the message.” 

“Good,” Stan nods, and Ford responds with a roll of his shoulders, kicking off his boots as he settles back onto the cot.

“It…it’ll certainly take a few days,” Ford says, “but if it’s bothering you, we can start heading back to shore. Find the nearest doctor. It…it might be beneficial for you too, concerning your…” he gestures to his head with a tiny flourish. “Your…”

“Told ya, Ford, my memory’s fine.”

Silence. A small sigh. “…Alright, then.”

“But if it makes y’feel better…sure. Fine. I’ll go waste my time with some quack doctor.”

Ford chuckles, and Stan hears the soft shuffling as he lies down for the night. “That’s the spirit.”

Stan smirks, drowsiness surging through his body as he finally allows himself to lie down. He lets out a quiet yawn, ears popping from the pressure; but when the feeling finally clears, something’s off. There’s a fog chilling the nape of his neck, the back of his hair, and before he knows it, it creeps straight into his head. No, no, not this again.

_My name is Stanley Pines._

_My name is Stan…Stanford Pines?_

_My name is…is…dammit…_

And his skull is full of thunder and his mind is full of clouds and there was _someone_ he was supposed to tell about this, but his eyes are already damp with tears and he doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know a _single reason why_ …

Blank and trembling, he blinks them away. Honestly, he can’t remember the last time he cried.

* * *

That Tuesday, he forgets where he left his life vest and spends a whole hour searching. He finds it at the foot of his bed, limp and lifeless as he feels in that moment.

On Thursday, he forgets the coordinates for the shore, and steers in circles until the evening points out his mistake. The sunset and his guilt are both blinding.

The next Monday, there’s a stranger with a six-fingered hand on his shoulder, conjuring vivid tales of dimensions and space-time. Stan looks to the water, brow furrowing, then back at the stranger. Asks bluntly why they look so alike. The stranger stops abruptly, his voice like a journal slammed shut. 

Stanford responds with nothing but murmurs until the next morning.

_“Stanley.”_

“Mmn…beat it, Sixer, th’ sun’s not even up yet.”

Ford tosses his blanket to the ground before Stan can even snatch it back. His eyes fly open irritably, narrowing at the stern-faced man above him.

“Stanley, I’m serious,” he says. “We need to do something about this.”

“S…somethin’ bout…bout this?” Stan groans, his back popping loudly as he rises to a sitting position. He looks drowsily at his cot. “I told you, there’s no point in makin’ the bed if I’m just gonna be sleepin’ in it the same ni—”

“I’m not talking about the damn bed, Stan, I’m talking about your memories! About what I _did_ to you!”

Ford’s voice echoes like a gunshot through the cabin, and then all is quiet. Stan’s eyes drift to his brother’s fist, still gripping the edge of the blanket, trembling with frustration and anxiety. 

“St…Stanford,” Stan says quietly, his own eyes flooded with concern, “look, you gotta stop blamin’ yourself.”

His brother’s eyes drift to the ground. He says nothing.

“Besides,” Stan continues, “we’re already on our way back t’shore, right? Just a few more days an—”

“That’s too much time.” Ford finally releases the blanket, massaging one aching hand in the other. “We need to do something _now_ , something effective.”

“C’mon, Ford, can’t it wait ‘til the sun actually ri—”

“Tell me your fondest memory.”

The demand catches him off-guard, and Stan raises an eyebrow skeptically. “You serious?”

“Something vivid, something—something _important_ ,” Ford settles on his own cot, staring intently at his brother. “Anything you can remember with as much sensory detail as possible.”

Stan shakes his head, agitation still buzzing in his sleep-deprived frame. “I—I dunno. Uh…S-settin’ off fireworks…with the kids. Th—the day I brought you back.”

“Good,” Ford nods. “Tell me more.”

“What th—c’mon, Ford, what is this?!”

“If you have a memory so vivid that it feels like you’re _there_ ,” Ford taps his own head, eyes eager and hopeful, “perhaps can ground yourself next time there’s an episode.”

“Well, y-yeah, I remember it vividly,” Stan stammers, “but there’s nothin’ else to tell! The kids and I shot off fireworks an’ played with water balloons. That’s it.”

“I need more than that, Stanley!”

“What more do you want?”

“Sensory _detail!_ What did it look like?”

Stan rubs his temples, but it’s all slowly coming into view: Dipper and Mabel, hair frizzy with summer heat, smiles bright as the dazzling array of balloons scattered across the lawn…

“Th…the kids are smilin’,” Stan states, eyes shut tight. “There’s ash on Mabel’s fingers from—heh—from that firework she shot off. Dipper’s gettin’ the first signs of a sunburn. They’re jumpin’ into a pile’f water balloons, I…I’ve never seen ‘em so happy.”

“Good, good,” Ford urges, “What else, what does it feel like? Sound like?”

“I—th’ the sun’s searin’ hot…The kids are tossin balloons at me, I—I think whatever water they used was chlorinated. Got dried chlorine all over my suit. I—I hear the kids laughin’, Mabel’s makin’ some sort of—gosh, I don’t know what kind’f noise she’s makin’, but she’s makin’ it.”

“Excellent. Now…what does it taste like?”

Stan’s brow furrows in frustration. This is getting ridiculous.

“I’m drinkin’ a Pitt Cola,” he says flatly.

“Stan, I’m being serious! Come on, wh—what did it smell like—”

“Dammit, Ford!” Stan’s eyes fly open, and he shoots to his feet. “Do you really think this is gonna work?! Whatever, it smells like Popsicle sugar and—and _sunlight_ , how’s that?!”

“St—”

He’s out on deck before Ford can even finish.

* * *

Stan wants to apologize, he really does, but the fishing pole in his hands and the words on his tongue are both bitterly cold.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what made him snap. Perhaps it was just crankiness from Ford’s rude awakening, or the fact that he was expected to basically spout poetry about something so personal. Heck, he missed those kids, and the last thing he needed was a reminder on how losing his mind meant losing them too.

He feels a slight tug on the line, but the footsteps to his left make him promptly lose whatever he’d hooked. He hears Ford silently ready his own fishing line at his side, but makes no eye contact; instead, Stan focuses on reeling in his hook and skewering on more bait.

Ford clears his throat, but Stan silences it with the sharp rush of casting his line. The hook flails in the wind before stabbing the choppy water. The stranger clears his throat again.

The crashing of waves has…always been comforting, he thinks, even when the seas are as unruly as this. There’s a certain contentedness in fishing, too. He can’t recall himself being very experienced, but he supposes that’s why he has a fishing partner at his side. The air is icy but crisp, like the soft chill of mint, and he feels safe.

“Guh…St—Stanley—”

A sharp thud at his side shatters the glassy air.

His head jerks to the left—the stranger is on the deck, he’s on the floor, he’s _not moving_ , and Stan is just as motionless, frozen with fear. The clatter of his fishing pole shocks him out of his stupor, and he watches as a rough yank at the end of the line rips the pole clear over the railing. His eyes shoot back just in time to see the stranger struggling for breath, half-gagging as his body begins to convulse. 

Stan’s face goes stark white. What is this, _who_ is this, and who is he to do anything about it—

_Stanley._

He’d called him Stanley.

Stan swallows thickly, rushing towards the stranger—his brother—and crouching at his side. His mind jolts with every spasm of the man before him, and he feels the sting of forgetfulness at the back of his skull, aching to fill his head yet again. With a shaky hand, he reaches forward—and he remembers.

_Their hair is frizzy with summer heat, smiles bright as the dazzling array of balloons scattered across the lawn…_

Stan quickly removes Ford’s glasses, slipping them into his own pocket, and works to turn his shuddering twin on his side. “Easy, I—I gotcha…I gotcha, S-Sixer…”

_Constellations of ash dot his niece’s fingers. His nephew’s cheeks are pink with sun and laughter. He’s never seen them so happy…_

Stan’s eyes dart between his brother and the steering wheel, blinking through the lingering static in his head. The wind howls in his ears. Shore, they’ve got to get to shore, they’re so close—

_The heat is scorching, and the scent of chlorine fills his lungs. Water balloons burst against his suit like fireworks, and he’s laughing, they’re all laughing…_

Gently but hastily, Stan eases his brother closer to the wheel. Still kneeling, he grips the cold metal with one hand and cradles Ford’s trembling body with the other, peering over the bow as best as he can. The boat speeds forward, wind biting at his skin, and he struggles to stay focused. _Stay with him, Stan, c’mon…_

_The taste of Pitt Cola lingers in his mouth, the can in his bandaged hand practically glowing. He raises a toast to ‘dumb things forever’—the twins reply in a cheerful chorus._

_He knows he’ll never stop smiling. Knows he’ll never forget this._

The wind whips at his hair, but Stan’s finally on course—finally in control. Ford convulses one last time, a quiet gasp catching in his throat as he slowly regains consciousness. Stan pulls him closer, grip tight on the wheel. Ford murmurs something incoherent, but his breathing is steady, his body is steady and he’s _alive_. He’s going be okay. Everything’s going to be okay. 

And the memories flood Stan’s head, bright and bold as ever, relief washing over him as he catches his first glimpse of shoreline. He smiles. Grasps his brother’s hand.

_It smells like Popsicle sugar and sunlight._

**Author's Note:**

> Oh! [For anyone interested, I post Gravity Falls and other artwork here.](https://platypuspencils.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
